


Birthday Roses

by Ravenesta



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, I am so fucking sorry, M/M, Reincarnation, happy birthday marco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 01:01:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1799716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravenesta/pseuds/Ravenesta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Happy birthday, Marco Bodt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birthday Roses

Jean hadn’t spoken a word the entire day.

 

At exactly eight AM, he had stopped his alarm, walked slowly down the carefully and immaculately decorated corridors, and sat at the stupidly long dining table with his mother, father, and older brother. Throughout breakfast, he had remained silent, eyes glued to his plate, and his back stiffened, while his mother and father made pointless small talk about politics and business and useless shit that meant nothing to Jean and his brother not-so-subtly texted under the tablecloth.

 

Jean had left the table without a word, barely catching his mother’s idle comment about how he was probably just “having a bad day, these teenage boys and their hormones, you know.” He’d showered, brushed his teeth, and dressed in complete and utter silence. The lack of noise wasn’t new to him; in such a massive house with just four people who were barely ever home living in it, any sort of constant noise was rare. When he was younger, Jean had spent his days roaming the halls, yelling, singing, trying to drive out the confining, suffocating silence. Now it was a gorgeous, comforting music to his ears.

 

He had stiffly walked through the front room to the door, ignoring his mother’s coos of, “where are you going? Did you dress up? Look at you, it seems you’ve actually combed that mess of yours!” He slammed the door behind him.

 

If there was one thing he appreciated about having ridiculously rich parents, it was their choice of estate. The Kirstein manor was located on a massive land plot just outside of a small town, and Jean had all of the space and fresh air and grass and fields he could ever dream of. He’d even gone camping out there once, when he was seven, with his brother’s stupid little play tent and a blanket and his Iron Man pillow and a backpack full of snacks and his sketchbook. Now, at fifteen, he felt the sudden urge to do it once more.

 

He continued his shuffling until the dirt road beneath his feet became worn, faded tarmac, and he passed the sign welcoming him to the town. The name of the little place always evaded him, Italian or French or something, but it was quaint, and easily one of the most relaxing places Jean had even been. He wondered why his parents had settled here, when his father had to drive for hours to do any business, and more frequently had to drive to the airport and take several week long business trips. Maybe they found the countryside as comforting as he did.

 

Mrs Rosalie, the tiny, ancient woman who ran the cornershop of the town, smiled warmly at him as he entered, and he returned the gesture half-heartedly. The faint smell of perfume, mixed with dust, flowers, and that strange aroma that age procured surrounded Jean. The supplies in the shop were limited, and people really only came here for gifts, small knickknacks or flowers or something. Jean beelined for the small shelves lined with flower bouquets.

 

He ended up grabbing a small bundle of roses, petals a deep and vibrant red. They were elegant, and familiar, reminding him of something distant. Something from one of his dreams, his _nightmares_ , from his childhood.

 

He dropped the bouquet harder than was probably necessary on the counter. Rosalie, (“Rosie, call me Rosie,” she always insisted,) grinned at him as she wrapped them, multiplying the already numerous wrinkles on her face. “For someone special, Jean, honey?” There she goes. Like most people who read his name before they heard it, he was forever to be known as Gene. Of course, the people who heard his name first though he was called John, which wasn’t much better, but still.

 

He gave a curt nod in reply. It wasn’t a lie. The roses were for a person more important to him than anyone else.

 

Rosalie _hmmed_ warmly, a chuckle rising in her haggard old throat. “Well, she’s very lucky to have a handsome young boy like you. You should smile, though, sweetheart!” She chided softly as she placed the roses in his hands, accepting the rumpled bills from his wallet. He opened his mouth to... what? Correct her? Thank her? He never found out, as he spun on his heel and shouldered violently out of the shop.

 

For the rest of his walk, his eyes remained glued to his battered Converse. When the road once again turned back to dirt, he allowed himself to look up and roam with his eyes, though he never stopped walking. He silently thanked the grey sky and whatever deities it contained that the field was empty. He couldn’t have handled the feeling of curious eyes watching him, although he knew that it would have been mere paranoia. Everyone who visited here was trapped in their own personal bubble of grief. His only company were the rolling hills and the headstones that dotted them. Many had been lost to time, names eroded and forgotten forever, and the only proof that they had ever been there completely covered in weeds and vines. _We have moved on, and the world has accepted our passing. There is no one to remember us now._

 

Others were obviously newer, with shiny black marble headstones and letters carved and enameled in gleaming silver and golden paint. Rapidly wilting flowers and sad, weathered toys sat on top of the grass. _We are not forgotten, we are missed and mourned and we cannot leave this world._

 

It frightened Jean how short some of the lifespans on these graves were.

 

Under most of these graves were rapidly decaying bones and skin and hair, _real_ , human remains.

 

All of the casualties at Trost had been burned, names forgotten. Yet, a young, brilliant eccentric historian at a University somewhere had uncovered supposedly lost lists of all of the dead at the legendary battle, and had subtly arranged for all of them to have headstones made.

 

Jean hadn’t been able to bring himself to call Hanji’s office.

 

Yet, it was because of her that he was standing in front of the final resting place of Marco Bodt.

The headstone wasn’t extravagant, wasn’t plain, smooth granite and simple lettering.

 

_Marco Bodt_

_Formerly of the 104th Trainee Squad_

_Leader of the 19th Squad_

_Fell at the battle of Trost District_

 

There was no birth date, nor a death date. Almost everything concerning the titan war was lost, in some great information wipe that happened God-knows-when.

 

Jean knelt in front of the grave, gently placing the roses at the foot of the headstone. There were no other flowers; nobody remembered Marco Bodt. He stayed like that for a few minutes, but in his mind it could’ve been hours. He stared at the letters, unseeing, mind swimming with memories of another time, tanned skin and freckles and a smile so bright it probably could’ve blinded titans. He had first remembered Marco when he was four, when he had a vivid nightmare of half a boy slumped in an alleyway and had woken screaming the name of a friend, a lover, who in this lifetime didn’t exist.

 

Jean leaned forward, and softly pressed his lips to the cool top of the headstone as he rose. “Happy birthday, Marco,” he whispered, voice hoarse and on the verge of breaking completely. His fists clenched at his sides, and he found himself drawing up into a salute, an old, proper salute with his right fist over his heart and his left behind his back.

 

His mother would have cried tears of joy at his posture.

 

Jean did not cry, and did not look back as he walked away, doing a proper military turn as he relaxed his salute.

 

Jean had nothing left to cry.

 

Marco had not come back this time, and he had left Jean Kirstein alone and completely empty.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is half an hour late because my friend and I literally didn't realise it was Marco's birthday until it was too late to do anything on time
> 
> Happy birthday, baby, why the fuck did you die and leave your boyfriend alone
> 
> (otherwise known as the "I literally cannot bring myself to write a happy story right now I'm so sorry" oneshot)


End file.
